


One in a Million

by FlatlandDan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Feels, Joining SHIELD, Multi, Obsessive Behavior, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint counts.  Phil can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One in a Million

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sirona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/gifts).



> Two fic in one day. Don't get used to it, this is just a happy combination of Feelstide and something I've had on the back burner for a few months *finally* working.
> 
> Started on the occasion of sirona noting that she has over a million ones up on Ao3. It's taken me so long to finish this her count is something like a billion now and I'm still in awe.
> 
> Thanks to pollyrepeat for the beta read (I like to think the punctuation is slowly getting better thanks to you)

Clint counts.

The first times Phil sees his lips move it’s over a video feed from the ranges, Clint being evaluated because no one is quite sure someone can be as good as he is.  He thinks Clint is praying because he knows the man is terrified of what he’s doing, of being in this building and signing on the line the day before.  Phil isn’t evaluating his skills as an archer- he actually thinks that the young man who cautiously grabbed the bow and arrows provided is actually holding back despite the cooing noises being made by his evaluators- he’s looking at the man. _Fragile. Damaged. Resilient._ _He’ll fit right in_.  Phil reaches over to change the camera, switches to one where he’s looking down the range and right into the oncoming arrows and focused eyes, and starts to read lips.  

It takes him a minute, because he’s expecting familiar words and Clint’s lips don’t move with every arrow.   _601610\. 601620._  He spends another minute wondering if this is a sign of an obsessive compulsive disorder, simple boredom or something more disturbing. SHIELD can deal with any of them, but needs to know. He sees Clint’s eyes lock onto the camera, the briefest shift away from his target as he notches an arrow and draws, the muscles around his eyes tensing along with those in his back.  Clint’s lips don’t move after that, but he smiles a little when he packs up the bow and there is a tension that has been released as surely as an arrow.  Phil makes a note in the file to keep an eye on the behaviour, make sure it isn’t a tell that will impact fieldwork, and moves on.

* * *

The second time Phil sees his lips move is three days after Dubrovnik, a perfect storm of bad memories, previously known issues, the wrong people and pain.  They’ve moved forward in the past three years, him and Clint.  Clint unconsciously pulls and Phil cautiously pushes.  Dubrovnik was a test for both of them and Phil wants him to know that despite the outcome, he’s pleased with the results.  It was their very own Kobayashi Maru and that it ended badly but with everyone home is a testament to how they work together.

Clint isn’t in the main ranges and so Phil ventures upwards to the Bad Weather range on the roof.  SHIELD believes that people should learn to shoot in all weather conditions but today is breezy and snowing and the current crop of baby agents are not quite at that level yet. It is, however, exactly the right conditions for Clint Barton’s Regime of Self Punishment (the capitals insert themselves every time Phil thinks or writes about the situation) and so Phil isn’t surprised to push open the door and see a figure.  Clint’s arms are pale and there is slight tremor to them as he notches, draws and exhales.  The puff of steam from the exhale draws Phil’s eye to Clint’s lips and he sees the numbers slip out silently. _773300._  Phil draws his jacket further around him and stalks out, making sure to let the snow crunch under his feet.  

“Sir.” Clint doesn’t stop drawing even as he acknowledges Phil, just keeps up the steady movement of the last few hours. The fact that Phil turning up doesn’t elicit a change is one of the  things that Phil likes about Clint. There are enough people in the building who treat him like a weird authority figure who demands full attention just by walking into a room.

“Agent Barton.  I think you’ve practiced enough for today.” It’s hard not to add the word don’t you and turn the statement into a question.  But it’s been three years, and Phil knows that if he adds that the answer will be a quiet no. Instead he sees Clint tense and then relax into the idea of it being enough, sees Clint nod and extend the fingers gripping his bow.  

“I just lost track of time,” Clint tells him, as if it’s an excuse that either of them will believe.  Phil huffs at him and stamps his feet a little.  His shoes aren’t made for standing around waiting for archers in the snow.

“We need to talk. Get a shower and change into something warmer. I’ll grab us some food.” Clint nods again and packs up his bow.  Phil can’t call the walk down the range they make together to collect the arrows embedded in the target a hundred feet away anything other than filled with relief.  He doesn’t walk Clint to his door, but he does walk with him as far as the labyrinth of corridors can justify before veering off to grab the promised food.  

He’s back in his office before Clint gets there, two bowls of  Miscellaneous Meat Stew, rolls and jello precariously balanced on a tray meant for one meal, but doesn’t have to wait long.   A knock later and Clint is settled across from him, tucking into food with no preamble.  This is, he has to admit, another thing Phil likes about Clint Barton. Meetings with food are conducted in the order of food then meeting.  They’re scraping the bottom of jello cups before Phil clears his throat and feels two eyes settle on him.

“Is this going to be a conversation about self deprecation again? Because I remember the last one.” It was going to be a conversation about self deprecation but now Phil wants to keep Clint on his toes, make him unsure about what these meetings are actually going to be about.  Besides, the last conversation clearly had enough impact that it’s nestled in Clint’s brain, like a good angel on his shoulder to balance on his demons on the other and that’s good enough to Phil.

“What’s the deal with the numbers?” Phil asks casually, giving up on the last bit of lime jello and putting the pot down so he can meet Clint’s slightly annoyed glare.  Another thing Phil likes about Clint: zero wasted emotions.

“It’s a thing. I don’t do it in the field.”

“I know, I’ve watched. What kind of thing?” Phil can pinpoint the moment when Clint’s glare shifts from annoyed to slightly guarded, the moment he realises this doesn’t have to compromise him if he picks his words right.  Phil lets the silence settle between.

Another thing Phil likes about Clint? They spend so much time together in silence that it’s never awkward, always just a lead up to the moment when they have something to say. Zero wasted words. Sometimes it’s mission parameters that keep them from talking, sometimes it’s stress, and sometimes it’s the eternal hunt for the right words that won’t set alarm bells off for the other person.

“I believe that if I make a million shots that one of them will be the one I need to make.” Clint finally tells him, his voice calm.  “Do you think that’s ridiculous?” Clint’s tone implies that everyone he has ever told this too thinks it’s ridiculous, so Phil makes sure to school his face while he thinks about it.

“You always hit your target. I don’t think you need to be concerns about that.” It’s not the right answer, Phil knows that instantly when Clint sighs and looks down at his hands.  “Are you concerned about that?”

“No, I mean.  I practice and I see my groupings are good so I’m not worried about hitting the targets.  I just....” Phil can see that his mind is stalling, trying to find the right words, but he knows better then put words in Clint’s mouth and lead him down a specific path.  Too many people have done that before and the consequence is sat in front of him, trying to express himself.  Phil takes a sip of his coffee.

“In your own time, Barton.”

“Someday I’ll have to make a shot with a million to one odds.  I want to make that shot.”

“You will,” Phil tells him firmly, trying to still any doubts.  “I have total faith in that.  But until then, maybe a little less killing yourself on the ranges. You’ll get to a million shots in time. I’m sure”  

“Yeah, alright Coulson.” Clint doesn’t believe him entirely, Phil is sure, but he’s got a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth so even if Phil hasn’t said exactly the right thing it was close.  H _orseshoes and handgrenades_ , he thinks to himself as Clint makes his excuses, grabs the tray and heads out.   _At least I’ve never killed someone with one of those things._

* * *

Phil sees Clint’s lips move again at 967900 and makes a huge mental note.  It’s the end of a complicated ops, one that made Phil’s head swim and had Clint tucked away above a high traffic area.  Phil has watched him through the safety camera, set up so that they could monitor his position without verbal cues, and knows the ops has made them both twitchy.  He’s known Clint Barton for seven years now and their friendship has progressed the the point where Phil doesn’t ask and Clint doesn’t tell because they both just know.  Phil watches him exhale and knows without looking that the arrow hit true.  They pack up the ops centre, pick up Clint seven streets away and four hours later Phil finds himself eating Pringles on a bed, one exhausted agent half asleep next to him.  The Food Network is playing quietly in the background, the only channel both of them can agree not to hate, and Phil is slowly working his way through the electronic reports as they come in.  He would think Clint was sleeping, but his breathing isn’t right yet. Phil hears the nervous hitch, feels the pent up energy, and regrets (yet again) not getting a hotel with a gym.  The cover of a Veteran Owned Business of America convention was just too good to pass up though. They blended in nicely.

“We’ll be on the move tomorrow,” Phil says companionably, dumping some more pringles between them. Clint shoves four into his mouth and ignores him.  It isn’t personal, Phil knows this.  He doesn’t particularly like this part of Clint’s personality, these spaces he gets himself into to survive the isolation missions put him into, but he understands how to weather them now.  “You’re getting close to a million.”

Clint does look at him then, the thousand yard stare that Phil used to find so disconcerting. “Yeah,” Clint replies slowly.  “Getting there.”

“What are you going to do when you get there?”

“Steak. Fries. A fucking cupcake.”  Phil can see his brain starting to re-engage.  So much of his time is spent working through the ups and downs of the stresses put on Clint Barton lately, their small task force dealing with Hydra cells one at a time.   _He needs to be part of something bigger,_ Phil thinks to himself.   _He needs a team to take the pressure off him._

“Do you want purple frosting on it? I know you love purple.” Phil keeps the bland bureaucratic tone in his voice and is rewarded with a snort.

“Fuck you, Phil. Don’t get on that band wagon if you know what’s good for your vintage crap collection.”  Phil lets the good natured bickering continue until the hitch in Clint’s breathing is gone and he’s sleeping with one arm curled protectively over the last tube of pringles. It’s the first time Clint has called him Phil.  Phil adds it to his list of things he likes about Clint Barton.

* * *

Really, it’s just basic math to know when to leave a chocolate cupcake with the brightest purple icing he can find on the desk in Clint’s room.  It’s a huge violation of privacy, going against at least four regulations, but when Phil finds steak grizzle nestled in the wrapper on his desk two days later he knows he’s gotten away with it.

* * *

Clint stops counting.

Phil starts cooking him dinner, once or twice a month.

Clint pulls Natasha Romanov out of a burning car.

Phil makes sure his body armour is upgraded because Jesus, he doesn’t want to ever see that many bruises and cracked ribs on Clint again.

Clint sleeps with Natasha.

Phil puts a blanket over him and some paracetamol and a bottle of water within reach when it all goes predictably wrong. He stops Tasha from running, stops Clint from running, brushes the whole thing under what could only be a huge oriental admin rug and ends up lying in the middle of his office because it could have gone so much worse.

Clint brings them both red velvet cupcakes, and Phil knows he’s a soft touch because that’s all it takes.  At least, judging by the slightly softer side-eyed looks Tasha is giving them both, Phil has company in the soft touch boat.

Phil finds himself on the wrong end of a gun and tries not to worry that either of them is going to do something stupid.  It’s his own fault, really.  He was as little unsure about this plan. Well, this part of this plan, and he should have trusted his gut.  Now he feels his feet resting on the edge of building roof, the pressure of the gunman’s hand tightening on the lapels of his jacket.  Now he sees the gun pointing at his face, the cold knowledge that pulling the trigger is a good option in the gunman’s eyes.  Phil doesn’t have many regrets, but knowing the likelihood that it’s going to be Clint (10 minutes out, last he heard) who finds his body is one of them.  A bit of roof crumbles under his foot, he’s pulled forward so that the gun can be aimed easier at his chest, and suddenly an arrow has sprouted out of the gunman’s hand and Phil feels himself falling for a second before being violently pushed forward by netting. He feels his head bounce against the ground but that ok because the gunman now has an arrow in his neck. Phil listens to him gurgle for a minute before all he hears is the sound of seagulls fading away.

* * *

Phil wakes up in a hospital bed with the bottom of a boot resting a foot away from his face.  It’s a big boot, a size 10, but he knows it’s on a foot that’s actually a size 9 but wears two pairs of socks.  Clint looks remarkably comfortable sleeping in that plastic chair, probably because more missions end with him either in it or the bed Phil currently occupies.  It’s another thing that Phil likes about Clint: he’s always there for his people, and his people are pretty much all of SHIELD at this point.  Phil has had reports cross his desk complaining of him sneaking McDonalds in for probies he’s never met.

He doesn’t have a tube down his throat, so really that’s an invitation to start talking. “That was a good shot, Barton.”

Clint smiles without opening his eyes, stretches his shoulders a little while he reaches up to scratch a bandage on his arm.

“One in a million, Sir.  You should know I’ve been saving that for someone special.”

“Are you saying I’m someone special?” Phil asks him.  Clint simplys _pfffts_ at him and leans forward so that his head is pillowed by a spare bit of matress.  Phil is a little high on good drugs, and so doesn’t really blame himself for clumsily patting Clint on the head and letting his fingers settle into his hair.

“Sometimes I like you better when you’re in a coma.  You put me in less awkward situations,” Clint replies, but he pushes his head into Phil’s hand and his breathing starts to slow again.  “It was worth every shot made to be able to make that one.”

Phil nods, because he is on the good drugs and can’t quite articulate how that makes him feel.

Clint counts. And, apparently, Phil counts too.  He likes that.

 


End file.
